


Love In A Lavatory

by SplinterCell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, if crack counts as 'plot'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/pseuds/SplinterCell
Summary: You’re needed in Hangar 1, it reads. Such an innocuous message, but Brock knows the intent behind those five little words, and it makes heat prickle across his cheeks.





	Love In A Lavatory

 

**September 2014**

Steve knows what Maria will say as soon as she steps into the room. He can read it well enough in her posture, in the rigid set of her jaw, in the way she is clenching her hands against her sides so tightly her knuckles have turned white.

“They’ve found another one,” he says, before she has a chance to. Maria nods.

They’re working backwards through SHIELD’s records, trying to gain a full picture of Hydra’s activities throughout the agency’s existence. It’s not a quick process, but the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place as they track the movements of operatives now known to have been working for the enemy. An analyst works late one evening, and confidential information turns up in foreign hands a few days later. SHIELD agents support a trade delegation, and a cutting-edge engineering firm’s R&D lab is ransacked a week later. An operative goes abroad on holiday, and a masked gunman assassinates a diplomat as he walks out of a restaurant.

In the beginning, Steve had wanted to know about each one; he would chase them for updates if he felt they weren’t sending them often enough. He’d been so eager to uncover Hydra’s infiltration so they could put it right. None of them could have imagined then just how far it went; how deep and how wide.

After a while, Steve had stopped asking, and Maria’s team had more-or-less stopped telling him. Since it is Maria herself now standing in front of him means whatever it is, whatever they’ve found, it’s bad.

Steve doesn’t want to know, but he is duty-bound to ask. “Who is it?”

“Take a guess,” comes her reply, and he can’t help but flinch. Of course it’s Rumlow and Rollins. Of _course_ it is.

They hadn’t been friends. Both had taken SHIELD’s fraternization policy seriously, and had been punctilious about maintaining the appropriate professional distance from him at all times. They hadn’t been friends, but they had been good soldiers.

Steve had thought they were good men.

And then they had turned out to be two of Pierce’s most trusted lieutenants, involved in all of Hydra’s most abhorrent activities.

Including Bucky.

“With the rest of STRIKE?” He hates how tentative and hopeful he sounds, and the way Maria’s eyes soften with understanding and something Steve would swear was compassion, if it wasn’t Maria Hill standing in front of him.

“Afraid not.”

Correction: _most_ of the puzzle pieces are falling into place. Steve’s ex-STRIKE teammates remain a distressing enigma. Their activities as part of the team are well-documented, but what no-one can figure out is what they were up to when they dropped off the radar together. That they can find no obvious explanation in Hydra’s otherwise meticulous records for why men like them would disappear without trace for hours at a time points to something big, the nature of which Steve cannot bring himself to think about.

“We’ll figure it out,” she assures him. Steve isn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but Maria knows him well enough by now to guess what is going through his head, and respects him enough not to sugarcoat the situation. “I promise.”

Steve believes it; there is little Maria cannot achieve when she sets her mind to it. They will find out, and the answer -whatever it turns out to be- will twist the knife even deeper into his back. “Right. Yes.” He tries for a smile. “Good.”

 

 

\---

 

**May 2011**

It’s another slow day in what seems like an endless succession of slow days.

It’s not that Brock expects matters of national security to follow a 9 to 5 Monday to Friday schedule; in fact, he likes that it doesn’t. He enjoys how unpredictable his job is; there’s a thrill to waking up in your own bed in the morning and knowing you might go to sleep in a South American safe house that night. But it’s been damn near a week now, and there’s not been a peep out of the hundreds of domestic and international terrorist organizations they monitor.

Everyone has their own little pet theory about what’s caused it: the weather (unimaginative); something other than fluoride in the water (run-of-the-mill); a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the planets and stars (stupid); their colleagues in America’s other seventeen intelligence agencies for once all doing their jobs in an effective, collaborative, and timely manner (downright implausible).

It’s weird, but Brock is less interested in what’s caused it than he is with trying to make the most of it, especially since Pierce is out of the country at a conference doing Secretary of Defense things, and Fury is off, well... god-knows-where doing god-knows-what.

He’s always appreciated the wisdom in the old saying, ‘Make hay while the sun shines’.

He’s taken as many of the STRIKE teams off active duty rotation as he can get away with and put them on call. When every mission carries the risk of it being your last, time spent with others becomes a commodity more precious than gold, and there will be less and less time soon for friends, family, and loved ones as they work to bring Pierce’s vision for Insight to life. Besides, Brock likes his guys - they’re dedicated, committed, loyal and trustworthy - but _Jesus fuck_ can they get up to some insane bullshit when they’re sitting around with their thumbs up their asses, and somebody will end up getting shot if he gets called in to deal with any more shenanigans involving pizza delivery boys and fire extinguishers.

All of that leaves him and Rollins free to tackle _admin_ , of all things. The endless minutiae of management that keeps slipping down the to-do list because they’re busy with actual work on a day-to-day basis. Signing off expenses; submitting procurement forms for new equipment; updating personnel records; scheduling in performance reviews (and isn’t that just the stupidest thing ever? Once Insight launches, Brock will print out every Personal Development Plan the team’s written over the years and make the pricks in HR eat them before he puts a long-overdue bullet through their dumbass skulls).

They’ve been locked away in his little office for most of the week, but for the first time in years, STRIKE is up-to-date. It won’t stay this way for long, but Brock reckons he won’t have pencil-pushing jobsworths chasing his ass down the Trisk’s hallways for at least the next month.

Which means it’s finally time for him to take a well-earned break.

His ‘office’ is little more than box; it was converted from an old file storage room for Brock’s predecessor, and it has no air conditioning. It boils him at the height of summer, and freezes him during the depths of winter, and he tries to spend as little time in it as he can. But now he’s not peering at a computer screen and trying to type, he can open the blinds and let the mid-afternoon sunlight stream in, and with the little digital radio sitting on the desk pumping out classic rock ‘n’ roll, it’s almost comfortable. He tips his chair back and kicks his feet up onto the window sill, basks in the gentle warmth and lets his eyes fall closed with a sigh.

He’s not about to doze off - slow day or not, he can’t afford to fall asleep at work - but his mind is for once pleasantly blank. Which is, of course, the moment his pager sounds, its obnoxious beeping dragging Brock’s attention back into the here and now. He grabs it off his belt and squints at it.

 _You’re needed in Hangar 1_ , it reads. Such an innocuous message, but Brock knows the intent behind those five little words, and it makes heat prickle across his cheeks.

 _G_ _o away_ , Brock types back. Jack won’t listen to him, he knows; not when he’s in this kind of mood. But it’s been that kind of week. It’s worth a go. _That’s an order_ , he adds.

 **BEEP**. _There’s a situation developing down here you need to deal with._

Brock knows with absolute certainty there is no situation of _any_ kind developing in Hangar 1. If there was, he wouldn’t be hearing about it via pager from his second-in-command.

 _Fuck off_ , he replies, and then adds as an afterthought: _I’m busy_. The response is almost instantaneous.

 **BEEP**. _Liar_.

Followed a moment later by another. **BEEP**. _Situation is **VERY** sensitive_.

And then another. **BEEP**. _Presence required ASAP, Commander_.

Brock growls deep in his throat. _Do you want to get shot in the head on our next mission?_ He is stabbing the little keyboard buttons with enough force to crack the plastic. _Because this is how you get shot in the head. Don’t think I won’t do it. I fucking will. You can be replaced._

That seems to work. Brock glares at his pager for a good three minutes but nothing else comes through.

Good, he thinks, settling back into his chair and trying to regain the sense of calm he had before the interruption.

The sun is still shining outside, wispy clouds drifting across the sky and the office is still and quiet. If he’s lucky, Brock will spend a couple of hours doing absolutely nothing before he gets the luxury of leaving on time and having an actual evening to himself, and Jack—

Well, Jack—

Jack can just—

Brock drags his hands down his face and swears.

 

\---

 

The hangars are as quiet as the rest of the Trisk. With no missions to prep for, the usual buzz and hubbub are missing, and Brock’s footsteps echo around the space as he makes his way over to where a small cluster of mechanics and engineers are watching something on a phone, tinny music leaking into the air.

Jack notices him as he draws closer and straightens up. “Hey, Boss,” he calls out in greeting, like Brock’s presence is unexpected, like he didn’t just summon his commanding officer down here with some bullshit excuse. “What’s up?”

He’s spent most of the week complaining about being bored, but the slow days have agreed with him. He looks more relaxed than Brock has seen him in a long while. The bags under his eyes have disappeared now he’s had a full night’s uninterrupted sleep for five days in a row, and there’s no trace of the hard scowl he wears more often than not.

He looks good, _real_ good. Knows it too if the way he shifts his shoulders back to show off his chest is any sign.

Brock nods to the others and then turns to Jack with a grimace. “Guess what the stupid asshole’s gone and done now.”

“ _Again?_ ” Jack’s groan is a little too exaggerated, a little too theatrical to Brock’s ear. He almost expects Jack to slap a palm against his forehead.

“Third time this month,” Brock says with a deep sigh, and that’s that. The rest of the group chuckle and drift off for a cheeky cigarette, and Jack falls into step beside him.

“You took your damn time,” he murmurs, bumping Brock’s hip with his as they walk. “You get lost on the way or something?”

“This is ridiculous. We’re supposed to be fucking professionals.” he growls back, hoping Jack can’t hear the note of anticipation coloring his words.

“‘Fucking professionals’, huh,” Jack echoes, and Brock doesn’t need to see it to know he’s smirking.

He’s about to shove an elbow into his ribs when Jack slips an arm around his waist and drags him off to the side. “Hey! Wha-”

Jack clamps his other hand over Brock’s mouth and hustles him towards one of the jets tied down near the far wall. For a moment Brock doesn’t understand what’s so special about it, but then he notices its rear hatch is open.

“She’s out of commission for a while,” Jack explains, letting go and stepping up into the jet, beckoning for Brock to join him inside. “Took a missile to the wing last week. Was more of a crash than a landing when they made it back, so they said." The grin that lights his face when Brock steps up into the jet is almost predatory. It makes Brock’s blood warm in his veins, quickens his heartbeat. It’s the same goddamn smile that gets him, every time.

At least until Jack reaches down under one of the jump seats and pulls out a rectangular piece of card on which he’s written, in bright red marker pen, the words ‘Out of order’ in thick block capitals. He hangs it on the lavatory door and opens it with a flourish. “Tada!” He looks so very pleased with himself, even in the face of Brock’s stony silence. “Let me guess: you’re not impressed.”

“No, I’m not fucking impressed,” Brock hisses. “D’you know why? Because it’s a fucking toilet, Jack.” And he has _some_ fucking standards.

“Not yet, it isn’t.” Jack grins, but Brock refuses to grace that with a response. “I’m having to get creative, okay? They bugged your office, and that handy little storage cupboard on fifteen is now a quiet room.” He lists them off on his fingers. “The roof is a no-go after what happened last time. They’ve now finished the renovations on six, and you bitched about the elevator for weeks.”

Brock colors at the mention of the elevator. Not because of the sex; they were forty stories above ground level facing out over the Potomac - nobody would have been able to see shit. But later the same day, after the engineers had declared the elevator fixed, he’d been in the lift with the Deputy Director and she’d spent the entire time complaining about the grease marks ‘some animal’ had left on the glass.

Fifty floors had felt like five thousand.

“Cut me some slack, will you?” Jack adds, moving inside and settling down on the little toilet. He’s not as stocky as a few of the other guys in the team, but what he lacks in girth he makes up for in height. He’s huge in the small space. “I’m starting to run out of options.”

“Only because you keep forgetting a real obvious one,” Brock reminds him, and Jack looks up with interest. “Your bed at home, asshole.”

Jack doesn’t reply, just unzips and pulls out his cock, stroking himself with slow, languid movements. “Stop being difficult and come sit on my dick.”

“No.” Jack gives him a look, and Brock crosses his arms. “I’m, uh...I’m not-” he trails off as he tries to find the right words. He’s not squeamish about bodily functions, but there’s just no nice way to put it.

Jack snorts. “You showered this morning. You’re clean enough. Come on.”

He might be, too. But that’s not the point. Jack will protect his secrets with his life, because most of Brock’s secrets are also his and Jack is pragmatic, but that doesn’t mean he’s not above using them to fuck with his commanding officer in various petty ways.

Brock knows from painful experience that Jack won’t act immediately. He’s a little too clever, a little too subtle for that. No, he’ll wait for the embarrassment to fade, for Brock to think he’s forgotten. He’ll wait until _Brock_ has almost forgotten, and then he’ll turn up to a useless meeting with snacks for everyone, and spend the entire time in Brock’s eye-line licking the chocolate coating off raisins.

It’s not a risk he’s willing to take.

“I said _no_ ,” Brock says, and Jack’s eyes narrow at the subtle shift in tone that conveys an order being given.

It is, Brock has to admit, a damned good stare-off. For all that Jack’s sitting on a toilet with his cock in his hand, the lazy eye always gives him an unfair advantage. But Brock has to lie to Fury’s face on an almost daily basis, and soon enough Jack relents with a cross sigh.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll make do with your mouth. Just get in here before someone sees you.”

Brock glances out on reflex, but there’s little to no chance anyone will see them. The jet is tucked away far out of sight of anyone on the main floor. It’s almost as if Jack has put some thought into how he can satisfy his perverted public sex kink at work without endangering both of their lives should the higher ups discover the extent to which they’re flouting the non-fraternization rules.

Like the jets themselves, quinjet lavatories are a masterpiece of aviation engineering and design. An elegant solution to an age-old problem, all tucked into a space which is a little less than 3 foot long and 2 foot wide.

What they sure as hell _aren’t_ designed for is accommodating two substantial men, especially when one of them is over six foot tall with legs that go all the way to Canada.

“This-” Brock grunts, trying to manoeuvre himself into a position to swing a leg over Jack’s thighs “-is a real - _fuck!_ \- real...shitty idea.”

It’s like playing the unholy lovechild of Tetris and Twister. Jack catches a hard elbow to the side of the side of the head and swats at his chest. “Just put your fucking-”

“ _I can’t_ ,” Brock hisses. He is caught at an awkward angle, half straddling Jack’s lap, one leg trapped between the toilet and the door, both arms braced against the wall either side of Jack’s head. Brock can feel him shuddering where his face is pressed against Brock’s chest. “Stop fucking laughing, asshole! I’m stuck. _Jesus Christ!_ ”

It takes a good couple of minutes, and it’s not graceful, but with Jack’s help and a lot more swearing Brock manages to fold himself into the space between Jack’s legs.

It’s cramped and uncomfortable, and he can’t bring himself to think about what he is kneeling in. They do clean the jets once in a while, but their passengers aren’t paying customers; cleanliness ranks about as far down the list of importance as it’s possible to get, right alongside comfort.

“Worst idea you’ve ever had,” Brock tells him, but there’s no real heat in his words because Jack’s hand is back on his cock a couple of inches from his face. He’s not cut like Brock is, and there’s something almost intoxicating about the way his foreskin slides over the head, something that sends shivers down Brock’s spine and steals his breath straight out of his lungs.

It’s Brock’s cock that twitches when Jack drags his thumb over the head, and he can’t help but swallow thickly.

Jack winks at him. “Not from where I’m sitting.” He shuffles forward and rubs the head against Brock’s bottom lip. “Now open up, _Commander_.”

It’s half past four in the afternoon, but all Brock can taste when he lets Jack push into his mouth is the natural slightly salty taste of his skin, and the very faintest hint of cheap citrus-scented liquid soap.

He folds his lips over his teeth and runs his tongue slowly up the underside. Probably slower than is sensible given where they are, and certainly slower than Jack would prefer. They’ll do it Jack’s way in a moment of course, but Brock relishes these first few minutes when he can go at his own pace and enjoy the way he can make Jack squirm with a simple flick of his tongue.

And when he looks up through his lashes, Jack is staring down at him wide-eyed. “You have no idea how good you feel, Boss,” he tells him, the last word sliding into a groan, and his hips bucking as Brock works his tongue just so as he sucks on the head. “You fucking tease.”

His voice already sounds unsteady. All of Jack’s self-control goes out the window when it’s Brock Rumlow his commanding officer he’s fucking, and it has nothing at all to do with the need to keep things quick. It’s one of the many reasons Brock keeps agreeing to this.

The thumb that slides into Brock’s mouth and rubs against the inside of his cheek and over his molars is unwelcome but not at all unexpected. Brock shoots him a dirty look when the other one joins it and stretches his mouth painfully wide. When Jack still doesn’t get the message, he lets his teeth graze over the sensitive skin in warning as he pulls away. “D’you fucking mind?”

“Sorry,” Jack murmurs. He’s not in the slightest.

The thumbs stay away when Brock swallows him down again, but his hands continue to hover around Brock’s face, brushing over his cheeks, neck and shoulders. Jack has never been good at sitting still and letting things be done to him, and soon his fingers are tangling into Brock’s hair, blunt nails scratching insistently along his scalp before his grip tightens.

It’s Jack’s way of asking permission for what he wants, and for a moment Brock considers being petty and not giving it. He’s in a fucking toilet, after all, kneeling in piss and shit and God-knows-what other bodily fluids.

But Jack is endlessly hot when he’s buried balls-deep in Brock’s mouth or ass and losing his mind over it, so he squeezes Jack’s thigh gently, and then the fingers are back, clamping around Brock’s head like a vice as Jack takes control.

It’s an awkward angle, even leant forwards with his weighted braced on Jack’s thighs, and he chokes as the first couple of thrusts push the swollen head hard against the back of his throat. Jack stills, giving him a chance to get himself under control, but he doesn’t pull out, and his grip doesn’t loosen.

“Is that all you can take?” he asks, like always. It’s a familiar script, but the disappointment and hint of mockery coloring his words gets under Brock’s skin every time.

He digs his fingers hard into Jack’s thighs, inhales deeply through his nose, and then sucks him down even deeper.

“That’s it.” Jack’s laugh slides into a groan when Brock swallows convulsively. “Good boy. _Good boy_.”

He starts fucking Brock’s mouth again, slowly at first, and then harder and faster with each thrust. Brock tries to take it smoothly, tries to hold his tongue hard and slick against the underside of Jack’s cock as he settles into a fast, punishing rhythm, rocking up into Brock’s mouth at the same time as he pulls his head down.

The sharp tang of pre-cum catches him unaware, and he gags again when Jack pushes him off, saliva spilling down his chin as he splutters.

“That’s nice,” Jack breathes when he draws away, eyes fixed on the thick streams of saliva running from the head of his cock to Brock’s lips. “That’s _real_ nice.” He runs his fingers up through the mess around Brock’s mouth and pushes it between his lips. It’s not hot in the jet, but there’s a flush of color rising in his cheeks and sweat is prickling near his hairline. “Shift back- shift back a bit... I wanna-”

Brock wants to argue that there is no space for him to shift back into, but somehow Jack finds it, manhandling him in the small space until he’s sitting back on his heels with his legs twisted underneath him, and Jack leaning over him. He shoves his pants down further onto his hips and braces one hand against the bulkhead. The other strokes over Brock’s head for a moment before he grabs a fistful of his hair, using it to pull Brock’s head back so he has no choice but to meet Jack’s eyes.

“You want this?” Brock hisses as Jack’s grip on his hair tightens. “Yeah? Then fucking _show_ me,” he orders in a low voice. It would have Brock aching and hard in his tac pants if he wasn’t already.

He complies, straining to inch forward enough to flick his tongue against the glistening head. Heat floods his face as he imagines how he must look right now; on his knees and desperate for his second-in-command’s cock, lapping at it like he’s a goddamned dog. If someone opened the door right now...

Jack groans above him in frank appreciation, and Brock has just enough time to draw in a deep breath before Jack is guiding his cock back into his mouth and all the way down into his throat in one smooth movement, until Brock’s nose is pressed into his pubic hair, the zipper jammed into his chin.

“Alright?” Jack asks, his voice rough and wrecked. Brock can’t speak; can’t even nod. Jack has him immobile, crushed up against the wall. The noise he makes is embarrassingly close to a whine, but that’s all the confirmation Jack needs.

This time he doesn’t bother with going slow; he pulls almost all the way out before he rocks his hips forward again, and again, and _again_ ; the force of each thrust forcing Brock’s head back into the bulkhead behind him and making bright spots spark in his vision. Brock clutches at the fabric bunched around Jack’s hips as Jack chases his orgasm. He’s starting to feel light-headed from the lack of oxygen, and black is creeping in at the edges of his vision when all of a sudden Jack pulls out.

“Look at me,” he pants, pushing the fingers of one hand between Brock’ lips, the other clamped around the base of his cock. “Look at me and open your fucking mouth.” Brock blinks up at him and obeys in a daze, sticking his tongue out as far as his abused mouth will allow him. “Yeah, _fuck_. Just like that.”

It only takes a couple of strokes until Jack comes with a grunt, and Brock flinches as hot, thick ropes of semen splatters across his face and neck. He doesn’t need to look down to know that his black shirt is sporting some white stains because Jack can’t aim for shit. “You motherfucker,” he snarls, because they have _rules_ about this sort of thing.

Jack blows him a kiss. “I couldn’t help myself," he says, pulling his pants up and tucking himself back in before slumping back onto the toilet. He grins, all slow and lazy, too blissed out from his orgasm to care about Brock’s tone and reaches out to run his thumb across his cheek. “Besides, you look good covered in baby batter.”

Brock jerks away from the touch, the suddenness of the movement dislodging semen from his chin and sending it dripping onto his lap. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he promises. “You are a dead man walking.”

“That seems a bit extreme.” The fact that Jack doesn’t even try to hide his amusement makes Brock’s blood boil even hotter. “You know what the good thing about toilets is?” he asks, jerking his chin at the wall behind Brock. “They have sinks. Know what you can do with a sink?”

Brock’s reply is instant. “Yeah. Drown a motherfucker.” He’s not willing to let this go just yet. “Remember Lima?”

Jack sighs, and then rolls his eyes as Brock wipes his face across his knee, smearing semen and saliva across the black fabric. “Real fucking mature, Rumlow,” he sneers, but whatever is brewing between them is forgotten in an instant when they hear a sound outside.

A thud.

An honest-to-God _thud_ that drives all thoughts of the cooling stickiness from Brock’s mind and sends chills down his spine. “Jack-”

Jack cuts him off with a sharp gesture. He’s got half an eye on the door, eyes unfocused as he strains to make sense of what they can hear outside.

More thuds, which Brock now recognizes as heavy booted footsteps tramping up and down. “ _What the fuck_ -”

Jack puts his finger to his lips, then switches into sign language. _They’ll hear us._

Brock takes a deep, calming breath. This can’t be happening. It just can’t. _Who will hear us, Jack?_

Because there is a chance, no matter how slim, the swift, purposeful movements he can hear outside are a maintenance crew who will fiddle with the buttons in the cockpit for a few minutes and then leave again.

Jack pauses. When he turns back to Brock, his face has gone as white as a sheet. _Whoever’s loading the jet_ , he replies, just as footsteps stop right outside the lavatory door.

“Oh what the _fuck_? ‘Out of order’?” The voice is young, male. Generic east coast accent. He could be anyone. There’s a sound of the sign being tossed onto the floor. “The fuck is this shit?”

The voice that answers him, however, is one Brock knows all too well. It haunted his nightmares for months after his induction into Hydra.

“What’s your goddamn problem now?” There can be no mistaking the smooth Texan drawl of John Garrett. Beside him, Jack flinches.

“This is such bullshit,” the first voice whinges. “I had a burrito for lunch. I gotta _go_.”

Garrett chuckles. “Should have thought of that earlier. Now you’ll have to hold it till we get there.”

“For an hour? _Fuck that_ ,” comes the voice from outside. He slaps his hand against the door. “I gotta go _now_. What are those fucking grease monkeys gonna do about it anyhow?”

They reach out at the same time, palms side by side as they lean against the door. Whoever’s on the other side is strong and desperate; the handle rattles frantically, but with both Jack and Brock’s combined strength acting on it the door doesn’t budge an inch, and after a few more seconds of fruitless shoving whoever it is gives up.

The voice moves off deeper into the jet, and Jack flicks the lock on the door. There’s a long minute of silence as they both try to calm down, and then Jack lets out his breath and rubs at his face. _That was a bit close_.

 _You said-_ Brock is so angry his hands are shaking as he struggles to make the gestures. _You said it was in for repairs!_

 _Yes, number 4 is in for repairs_ , Jack signs back, choosing his words with care. _That’s what they told me._

Brock gapes at him. _So which one is this?_

Jack shrugs helplessly. _Obviously not number 4._ He still looks shaken, but the color is returning to his face now they’re no longer in imminent danger of being discovered.

Jack has always found it easy to regain his equilibrium; it’s a large part of what makes him such an effective second. Brock on the other hand doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh hysterically, or bawl his eyes out like a baby.

_It’s the wrong goddamn jet._

Something of his distress must show on his face because Jack raises his hands in a contrite gesture. _In my defense_ , he signs, _they don’t paint the numbers on the outside._

Brock’s about to flip him off when there’s a heavy slam as the hatch closes, and then a deep rumble starts underneath where he’s kneeling as the engines come to life. He lays his forehead against Jack’s thigh and squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to work it through.

First, he has no idea where this team are heading. All he knows is it will take an hour to get there, which limits the geographical scope to somewhere within North America. Which is good, sure, but then what? How long are they going to be on the ground while this lot do their thing? What even _is_ their thing? If Garrett’s involved then the likelihood is it’s high-level. It could be hours.

Fuck. It could be _days_.

No, Brock thinks, it’s unlikely to be days. The jet was loaded on too short notice for anything other than a quick jaunt. But it still means who knows how many goddamn hours stuck in a quinjet toilet on his knees, all because Jack _fucking_ Rollins couldn’t wait to get his dick wet in the privacy of his own home.

Jack taps two fingers against his cheek, and this time Brock gives him the finger without bothering to lift his head. If they somehow survive this, Jack _will_ pay. He’ll need to think about it, because it needs to be something suitably terrifying and humiliating. Something to do with the Asset, perhaps. Maybe Brock can put him in charge of dressing the Asset for Pierce’s playtime sessions.

The fingers move softly over his cheek, rubbing behind his ear before they move to his hair, gently but insistently tugging until Brock has no choice but to look up.

Jack gives him a small apologetic smile. _It could be worse_ , he offers, and Brock has to work hard to resist the urge to sink his teeth into the vulnerable skin of Jack’s thigh and make the fucker howl.

Because that’s easy for Jack to say. He’s not the one who’s covered in jizz, with old man knees which are already beginning to seize up.

Sign language is a very expressive medium to swear in, but even so Brock would swear no words exist can convey the roiling mass of fear/rage/shame twisting inside his guts. But where words fail him, actions step in to save the day. Simple, uncomplicated and effective.

Jack is completely unconcerned by the two outstretched middle fingers Brock shoves into his face, or the dead-eyed glare accompanying them. He catches both of Brock’s hands in his and presses a chaste kiss against his knuckles.

 _I’ll make this up to you_ , he signs. _I promise_.

He’s not smiling, but the skin around his eyes is crinkling in silent amusement. He finds this _funny_ , Brock realizes, and then inspiration strikes; vicious, petty and fucking _beautiful_.

The Social Committee.

Brock will add him to SHIELD’s Social Committee.

Nobody in the agency enjoys the mandatory recreational activities they have the gall to call ‘fun’, but most people can appreciate a couple of hours away their desks, exchanging idle chitchat with colleagues while drinking soda and munching snacks.

Jack, however, is not ‘most people’, and Brock is certain nobody else has ever injured themselves on purpose just to get out of taking part in an egg-and-spoon race.

It’s perfect.

He looks up into Jack’s face as the engines roar. It’s a lovely face, all things considered. Open and honest and still handsome in spite of the scar and the wonky eye. Brock likes it, and the man it belongs to, a damn sight more than he ought to.

Right now It’s also the face of a man who has no idea of what lies in store for him should they make it through this clusterfuck in one piece. Brock would feel bad about it, were the punishment not so richly deserved.

 _Damn right, you will_ , he agrees, and lets himself grin as Jack’s expression falters.

 

\---

**Author's Note:**

> If it weren't for Neutralchaos this thing would never have seen the light of day, so please direct all blame to her :)


End file.
